Jessel had never worn anything like this in her life. The dress clung to her like a second skin, midnight blue with a slit high enough to make her uneasy. The heels were taller than anything she'd ever dared to wear, forcing her to walk with careful precision. And the perfume—subtle yet expensive—was one she didn't own. Castiel had ordered everything for her, as though she were a doll to be dressed and displayed for his purposes.
She looked at herself in the tall mirror of the guest room. For a moment, she didn't recognize the woman staring back. Gone was the girl from a small apartment with secondhand clothes and a kettle that never worked properly. In her place stood someone who belonged in smoke-filled clubs, someone who knew secrets and sold them for survival.
But Jessel knew the truth. She was still the same woman inside—nervous, unsure, terrified of the path ahead.
A knock on the door startled her. Before she could answer, Castiel entered without permission. He never asked.
He stood with his usual commanding presence, black shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing the edge of the lion tattoo carved into his chest. His broad shoulders and towering frame seemed to take all the oxygen out of the room. He held something in his hand—a thin earpiece—and placed it on the dresser.
"You will use this to contact me. No one else." His voice was low, deliberate, each word heavy with control. "Whatever you see, whatever you hear—it belongs to me. Understand?"
Jessel swallowed and nodded. "Yes."
Castiel stepped closer, so close that the faint scent of whiskey and smoke wrapped around her. He didn't touch her, but his presence pinned her to the wall. His eyes, steel-gray and merciless, searched her face as if testing her resolve.
"Good," he said at last, retreating just enough to let her breathe. "Tonight, you will go to the club. My rivals are meeting there. They'll speak of shipments, dates, routes. I want every word."
Her chest tightened. "And if they catch me?"
Castiel's lips curled into something like a smile, though it carried no warmth. "Then you won't live long enough to regret it."
With that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing against the marble hallway.
---
Hours later, Jessel sat in the back of a sleek black car, her nerves strung tighter than the strings of a violin. Castiel's men had driven her to the private club but offered no words of encouragement. Outside, the building loomed tall and discreet, guarded by men in suits with eyes sharp as knives.
"Remember," Castiel's voice came through the small earpiece hidden in her hair, "no one questions a woman who acts like she belongs. Walk like you own the place. Keep your head high."
The car door opened. Jessel stepped out.
The guards' eyes swept over her, pausing just long enough to make her pulse race. Then, with a nod, they let her pass.
Inside, the club was a world of smoke and shadow. Chandeliers glowed above velvet curtains. Music pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter. Everywhere she turned, there were men with predatory smiles and women who sparkled like jewels.
She forced herself to blend in, drifting from table to table, feigning interest in the decor, in the games, in the endless glasses of champagne. But her ears worked harder than her eyes. She listened.
At the bar, two men murmured about shipments arriving at the docks. On the balcony, another whispered about a "Tuesday deal." Near the poker table, a name was spoken—a name she memorized instantly, committing it to the growing map in her mind.
Every step was a risk. Once, a man leaned too close, asking if she was alone. She smiled politely, claimed she was waiting for a friend, and slipped away before his hand could graze her arm.
Minutes turned into hours, and soon her head was swimming with information. She couldn't write it down, couldn't record it, but her mind—sharp, determined—kept each piece locked tightly inside.
Finally, when her feet throbbed and her throat ached from pretending to sip champagne, she slipped out the back door.
A black car waited in the alley. She slid inside. Castiel was there, leaning back, cigarette in hand, his expression unreadable.
"Well?"
Jessel took a deep breath and repeated everything she had heard. Dates, numbers, names, routes—she recited them with precision, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart.
When she finished, silence filled the car. Castiel's gaze lingered on her, sharp and assessing. Then, slowly, a smirk curved his lips.
"Not bad," he said softly. "Not bad at all."
Relief washed over her. But it didn't last.
Halfway to the mansion, the car slowed. Castiel leaned forward to the driver, whispered something, then turned to her.
"You'll walk from here."
Jessel blinked. "What? It's the middle of the night!"
"You heard me." His tone was final. "If you can't survive the streets of this city alone, you won't survive this life at all."
Before she could protest, the car pulled over. Castiel himself opened the door, his hand gripping her arm as he helped her out—not gently.
"Find your way back," he said. His eyes caught the moonlight, silver and cold. "If you don't—you weren't meant to stand beside me."
The door slammed, and the car drove away.
For a long moment, Jessel stood frozen in the deserted street. Shadows stretched across crumbling buildings, and the air smelled of smoke and rain. She wanted to scream. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and started walking.
Her heels clicked against the pavement, too loud in the silence. Twice, she thought someone was following her. Once, a group of drunk men blocked her path, jeering until she ducked into an alley and fled. Her dress tore at the hem, her hair tangled in the wind, but she kept moving.
Every step was survival.
By the time she reached the gates of Castiel's mansion, dawn was beginning to lighten the sky. Her feet were blistered, her throat dry, but she walked through the gates with her chin high.
The guards let her in without a word, though one of them smirked at the sight of her ruined dress. Inside, the mansion's grand hall glowed with soft light.
Castiel was waiting. He sat on the sofa with a glass of whiskey, his dog resting at his feet. When Jessel entered, the dog wagged its tail and padded toward her, tail thumping gently against her leg.
"You made it," Castiel said, his gaze sweeping over her torn dress and flushed face. For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his expression—something dangerously close to admiration.
Then it was gone.
"You'll do."
That was all he offered. No apology. No praise. Just two words that felt more like chains than acknowledgment.
Jessel's hands trembled at her sides. She wanted to shout at him, to demand if he understood what he had put her through. But instead, she forced herself to stand tall.
"When's the next mission?" she asked.
Castiel's smirk returned, cruel and knowing.
But before he could answer, the dog suddenly growled, its eyes locked on the doorway.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Jessel's heart lurched as a tall figure entered the hall, shadow spilling behind him. She didn't know who he was, but something about his presence sent a shiver down her spine.
And in that moment, she realized her ordeal was only just beginning.
---